The Hook-Up

The Student.

Her name was Megan and she always sat in the front row. Her hair was auburn in color and usually pulled back with some kind of tie. It fell to her shoulders and she had bangs cut in the front that made her look younger than 20. She just turned 20. I knew that because I used my access to the University's online enrollment and student records service to look up her date of birth. Her skin was pale, but not sickly. It was smooth and looked incredibly silky and soft to the touch, especially on her legs. That was the first thing that attracted me to her, her legs. She wore short shorts and she always sat in the very front row. It was summer time and hot outside, but despite the heat her skin never seemed to darken or tan. Her creamy white legs were usually visible up to the bottom of her ass. She would cross them and uncross them as I lectured, shift herself in her seat so that I could see more of them or less of them. I wasn't sure if she was aware and flirting, or unaware and just accidentally giving me a show. Sometimes she would wear low-cut shirts and occasionally she would lean forward, but it was never enough for me to see anything up top without oggling - I couldn't risk that in front of the class. So, I resigned myself to checking out her legs. Sexy, creamy legs.

I decided to try to seduce Megan during the second week of class. She was showing off her legs and talking a lot during lecture, so I was making eye contact but spying the occasional glance down at her legs. After class I went back to my office and masturbated trying to imagine how I would plan it out. I decided to take advantage of the course topic and see if I could worm my way in that way.

The course was called "Drugs and the Brain" and the topic was focused on addiction and drugs of abuse. I am a Sociologist by training, but I knew enough of the topic to teach it as a 6-week summer course. During the course I often alluded to my own experiences, but I never would say outright whether I had smoked pot in the past. This being the midwest, pot being illegal, and me being an employee at a reasonably prestigious school - I decided it was better to leave those things unsaid.

However, that was going to be my in with Megan. The 3rd week of class we had a long discussion on Marijuana and the merits and drawbacks of legalization. Megan had a lip ring and she was very pro-pot. I think she was dissapointed that, as the professor, I espoused a view favoring tightly regulated medicinal use, but not legalization or decriminalization for recreational use. That was my 'in' because I gave nothing away - there was enough ambiguity in my personal views that I was certain no one could say for sure whether I was a smoker myself or not.

The truth was, I had smoked pot in the past. A lot of it. Breaking this to Megan was going to be my way of building her trust. Breaking this to Megan was going to be my excuse for seeing her in a non-professional capacity, and, I hoped, in a more intimate setting. I planned to ask her to get me some pot, and I hoped that would lead to something more.

I settled on a Wednesday to ask her. She was the first one there, as usual, 45 min before class and the only one in the classroom that early.

"Hey, can I talk to you about something after class?" I asked.

"Sure, is everything alright?"

"Yeah, nothing bad or anything. I just need to ask you a question, something I'd rather not discuss here." I motioned to the empty room. She understood my meaning and nodded her assent. Lecture was agonizing that day. I kept stealing glances at her legs and when I would make eye contact she smiled a little bit more than usual. I couldn't help wondering if she knew what I wanted to ask her.

After class, three of the other students had questions or issues they wanted to discuss, so she waited as if she were the last in line.

"Hey, thanks for waiting." I told her as the last student was leaving.

"No problem, what did you want to ask me?"

"Not here." I reiterated. "Do you have a few minutes to walk? I'm going to my car and I'd rather discuss this outside the building."

"Sure, I'm leaving campus anyway. Where are you parked?"

"Off campus, across Ames Ave." This was a small residential neighborhood across the street from campus.

"Oh, cool, I park there too."

"Great." We left the building and I made some small-talk. As the teacher in these awkward situations outside the classroom with students I try to set their minds at ease by talking about stupid things. I could tell she was nervous because she didn't really respond. Once we got outside I made a show of looking around and making sure no one was within earshot. When she noticed this behavior I turned my head forward, averting eye contact with her and started in on the monologue I had rehearsed.

"So, I totally understand if you don't want to answer this, and, I really don't want to put you under any pressure to answer or anything, but basically, I, for a few reasons, was kind of wondering, um...do you smoke weed?"

She didn't respond, but I could feel her looking at me. Without returning her look I blurted out some more.

"Like I said, please, don't respond or just tell me if that question makes you uncumfortable. I am totally not supposed to ask you questions like that and I am only really asking for my own selfish reasons. So just tell me to go to hell if that's how you really feel."

"No, it's not that. I just didn't expect the question. Sorry, I do smoke and I don't care that you asked. I mean, I am kind of wondering why you asked, but it doesn't bother me that you did."

"Sweet" I thought, I am in. From here, I had very little but a vague notion of how I wanted this to go. I finished my spiel.

"Well, I am asking you because I was hoping you might be able to help me score." I told her. "Do you guys still call it 'scoring'? I mean, I haven't got high in like a really long time. I am on my own this weekend. My wife is heading to Kansas to visit her parents. All I have to do this weekend is mow my lawn and I was hoping to spend that time, plus the rest of the weekend, stoned out of my gourd. Sorry, I'm babbling. I was wondering if there was any way that you could hook me up with some weed is all. Your professor is asking you for a pot hook-up, that's all."

I was acting nervous but I wasn't really embellishing that much. I was more nervous about the direction that the conversation would eventually go, but I used those nerves to feign nervousness about the weed.

"That is too funny!" She laghued. "Me and a couple of the other students were wondering if you smoked or not. That's pretty funny, I should have bet them. I thought that you definitely did, they disagreed."

"Well Megan, I don't know if you can really collect on that bet. I have in the past, but I haven't recently - in fact, it's probably been almost 10 years." I caught a doubtful look from her.

"Seriously. And there's actually another thing I need to mention to you, it's part of the reason I asked you and no one else. You seem like you're a lot more mature than the other students and you seem to care more about the course. This would kill my career if it got out - even if it got out that I asked for this. I'm talking about an A-Bomb on my life. So the reason I asked you was because out of any of my students, I thought you'd be the most discrete. The most able to keep it to yourself. No one can no, absolutely no one."

This was true and untrue. Out of any of my students, I thought she was one who liked me enough to not sell me out as a cool story to tell her friends. I liked my other students and I was reasonably sure that they liked me. But, if one of my profs had asked me to hook them up when I was in college - no way I don't tell at least someone just for the story. Megan was safe, that was part of the attraction. She seemed like a bit of a loner, like she enjoyed being an outsider. I was reasonably sure she'd keep my secret, at least that she wouldn't tell her friends just to garner respect. If nothing else came of this, I'd have some weed to smoke and be reasonably sure that no one knew about me asking a student for a pot hook-up.

"Sure, I get it." She said. "It's illegal, and if I told anyone, you could get in trouble." I looked over at her for only the second time since we left the building. She looked troubled, she stopped walking. We were nearing an intersection and there were some people waiting at the light. "Look, I'm not sure what you think of me, but I'm not some big pot hook-up or anything. I only have a personal stash."

"Oh, no-no-no, I don't want you to think that. I mean, I don't think that you are some dealer or something. I just thought that, if you smoked, you could probably get it. Me, I can't get it and even if I thought I could, I can't just go asking for it from someone who I don't totally trust, you know what I mean? It's not that at all. I mean, I had to try to find someone who I was pretty sure would not say anything, not to their boyfriend or girlfriend, not to their friends, no one, you know?"

"Well, I don't have a boyfriend and I don't have that many friends...any that would care, anyway." She said this in a self-effusing way, but she recovered and sort of perked up for apparently no reason. "So, when would you want this?"

"Whenever I could get it, really. Like I said, this weekend my wife is gone and I have a few things I have to do around my house, but other than that, I am pretty free to just kind of relax. So, by the weekend would be ideal, but if you couldn't get it by then, I could hold onto it for a special occasion. I definitely don't want my wife to know though."

I looked back at her and she was kind of eyeing me over her sunglasses. I wasn't sure if telling her I wanted to keep this a secret was going too far or not. I decided not to discuss my wife any further if I could avoid it.

"Okay, but I still don't know how much you need." She said.

"Well, not a lot I guess. I mean, just enough to get me through the weekend is all. I used to buy eighth ounces, of good stuff anyway, and that would normall last a week or two. I'd probably need a lot less than that, maybe half of that?"

"Sure. So, I just bought an eighth of good bud, it cost me $70. I will sell you half of that for $70."

"You're taking advantage of me." I tried not to sound hurt, but I hadn't planned on spending that much money. After all, the point of this was to try to get her to touch my penis. Getting high was just a nice fringe benefit.

"Think of it this way - you are paying 35 for the weed, and 35 for the fees."

"Fees?" I asked.

"Yeah, fees. You don't have any other way to get it and I am going to have to go back to my hook-up sooner than I planned. So you are paying me for my time and for my ability to keep a secret. You wouldn't want me to start talking about this with the other students in class, would you?"

"No." I wasn't afraid, but I pretended to be. As long as I only dealt with her, I had plausible deniability. As long as she didn't bring anyone else into this, the worst she could do was accuse me and all I had to do was deny it. "Okay, so you have me at your mercy. I have to hit the ATM, and I can't really buy it today, but Friday would work. I pretty much have the afternoon off after class."

"How do you want to do this, then?" She asked.

"Well, why don't you wait for me Friday after class like you did today. Act like you have a question about the next exam. We can leave the building together, I don't think that's too risky. Then I can pick it up from your place, or you can drop it off at mine. Either way works for me."

I was pretending like I didn't care, but I really did. I had no desire to have her know where I lived. If she went all Fatal Attraction, better to force her into a lot of detective work before she found my house and my pet rabbit.

"Why don't you park on Thorson on Friday, that's normally where I park. When we leave, you can follow me to my place I will have it for you there."

"Thanks!" I realized how over-enthusiastic and dorky I sounded but it was too late. "I mean, I really appreciate your discretion and your help."

"No worries." She said. "Friday then." She crossed the street heading in the same direction I was going, so I waited for a few minutes before I followed. I was also parked on Thorson, but by the time I left, she was gone.

The Hook-Up.

Friday came around sooner than I expected. I had put Megan and our plan out of my mind. I released lecture early on Friday and waited for the usual barrage of questions, but she was the only one who stayed after class.

"Ready?" She asked.

"You have no idea." She laughed at this response.

As we left the building she asked me another question. "So, I've been kind of wondering. You said it's been 10 years, how are you going to smoke it? I mean, I assume that if your wife doesn't know about it then you don't have a pipe or anything."

"No, you're right. Honestly, I thought of that after you left on Wednesday. The only thing I could come up with was joints. And I am terrible at rolling joints. So I thought, worst case scenario I could poke a hole in a coke can, like we did when I was 16."

She laughed again. "Well, how about I roll you a joint? I'm pretty good at it."

"That would be awesome, thanks. Is this you?" She was stopping next to a blue sedan, about 15 years old and rusting out in the under-carriage from the salted roads in the winter. It was a buick or another American sedan. They all kind of looked alike to me.

"Yeah."

"I'm in the black truck - back there. Which direction are you going?"

"I'll take a right on Ames, then left on Cross. I'll wait though."

I got in my truck and followed, she lived about a mile and a half from campus. She parked in front of a small, dingy apartment building. She smiled at me and asked if I was ready again.

"Yeah." I followed her to the door of a basement level apartment on the end of the building. It was mid afternoon in the summer time, and no one was around.

"Come on in, sorry for the mess."

"No worries, you are the one doing me a favor. It would be kind of douchey to complain." Her apartment was small, a small living room with a couch and a TV was visible as we walked in. To my right was a small kitchen. The apartment was dingy, but not overly messy.

"Make yourself at home, I'll get the pot, it's in my room."

"Thanks. You live here alone?" I asked, raising my voice so she could hear as she walked through a bedroom doorway. I sat down on the couch and waited. The apartment appeared to be a small 1-bedroom, but it was pretty dark on the lower level and hard to tell.

She returned with a smile and a small sandwich baggy held in her hand. "Yeah, you afraid someone is going to see you with my weed?" She threw the baggy in my lap.

"No, just curious I guess. This is it?" I unrolled a baggy with what I remembered to be all the tell-tale signs of good pot. Bright green, crystals, and a pungent aroma as the baggy unfurled.

"That's your half. Look okay?"

"Great." I said. "Would you still be willing to roll me a joint?" I wasn't ready to leave and I realized then that I hadn't really prepared any excuses to stick around. She saved me the trouble though.

"Sure, on one condition though."

"What's that?"

"Well, I don't get to tell anyone now. But one day, if I do tell the story, I want it to be the story of how I smoked a bowl with my "Drugs and the Brain" professor. You know, when I tell my grandkids or whatever."

"You mean right now?" I asked.

"You have to be somewhere?"

"No, my wife left this morning and I got nothing else to do today."

"Good, me neither." She moved deeper into the living room and fiddled with some stereo equipment under the TV. The local college station came on - it was a parody song by Flight of the Conchords, Business Time. From somewhere under the TV she produced a small glass pipe and some zig-zags.

"Here," she said, handing me the pipe. "You pack this, then I'll roll you a fatty with whatever's left over."

I broke some of the pot off of the bud, careful not to include stem. There were no seeds. Ah, the things you never do but never forget. For some reason I thought about bicycles. I handed her the baggy. "You have a lighter?"

"Yeah, it's in my room, on top of my dresser." I set the pipe down on the coffee table and looked at her questioningly as I got up. "Go ahead," she said seeing my look, "it's just a room."

I found her dresser, but no lighter. No anything, in fact. No pictures, no posters on the wall, nothing at all on top of her dresser. "I don't see it." I said loud enough so she could hear me over the music.

"Oh, I must have put it away. I'm kind of OCD like that. Top drawer then."

"Nice. Let's have a look!" I thought. When I opened her drawer, I realized that she was crazier than I originally thought. I've seen organized, but this was over the top. There were four open-top boxes dividing the drawer, one in each corner. On the right side were socks, on the left side were panties. In the back/middle was a fifth box with bras. The socks were divided, whites in the front, darks in the back. Same with the panties, lighter colors in front, darker colors in the back box. I would have been excited, and I would have totally been pervy enough to sniff her clean panties, but I was afraid to touch anything. The front box of panties were rolled into little taquito-shaped bundles and were organized front to back, lighter colors like whites and pinks, to darker colors like light greens and blues. Same with the back box - reds were in front, darker colors near the back. Without touching them I could see there were at least two rows neatly stacked atop each other. Same with the socks. Bras were folded neatly, one cup inside the other, straps tucked under, and stacked and color-coded. In the front middle were 6 bic lighters, in a small cardboard box, from left to right yellow, 2 orange, 2 green, and a blue.

"Holy shit."

"What's that?" she asked from the living room.

I grabbed the yellow lighter on the left and closed the drawer. "You have to have the most organized underwear drawer I have ever seen!" I told her as I walked back out into the living room.

"Oh, that. Well, I told you I was OCD. You didn't move anything, did you?"

"Nah." I handed her the lighter, shaking my head.

"Oh good, yellow." She said. I got the feeling she was happy it came from the end, not the middle. "Here, you first." She picked up the pipe and handed it back to me with the lighter. Our hands touched and it was the first time that I had touched her skin. It was electric and I dragged my hand over her palm to try to increase the contact.

"Go ahead." She egged me on, watching intently. I lit the bowl, inhaled, and used the little carb on the pipe to clear it at the end of the hit. I held my breath for a minute and then exhaled. She was still watching me, so I handed her back the pipe and lighter trying to touch her hand with mine as much as possible. I sat back down on the couch and she joined me.

We each took a couple more hits, passing the pipe and lighter, touching hands. I thought she was beginning to understand why we were hear.

After her third hit she handed the pipe back. I put my hand on her wrist but didn't take the pipe back. "No, thanks." I said. "I am definitely a lightweight after 10 years, and I don't want to get too baked. You go ahead and finish it though." I left my hand on her wrist and made eye contact with her. "Thank you again, this feels amazing." I opened my hand and rubbed it along her forearm to make it sort of ambiguous whether I meant touching her or my head buzz. "Thank you soooo much." I pulled my hand back, but did not break eye contact.

She looked away, down at her arm, then at the pipe. "I'm good too." She said. She put the pipe and the lighter on the coffee table and sat back. I lay my head back on the couch cushion and closed my eyes.